


Such Terrible Silence

by etoilecourageuse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Depression, F/M, HP Mental Health Fest, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoilecourageuse/pseuds/etoilecourageuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one had ever noticed the marks that grotesquely blemished her body and yet told a tale, a tale of nothing but sheer despair. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Terrible Silence

The nights were the worst. It wasn’t the darkness that bothered her, wasn’t the darkness she feared – how could she ever fear what had been her companion for as long as she'd lived? It was the silence, the suppressing silence that would creep back to her night after night, coming to drown her, to take her breath away. The silence that she was only able to break by talking quietly to herself, as though she had lost her mind. The nights were the worst. In the daytime, she forced herself to smile at those who crossed her path, sometimes to laugh, to speak to them whenever she had the chance, despite wanting nothing more than to lock herself into her room, alone, never to leave her home again. In the daytime it was easy to pretend that everything was all right, yet at night there was no chance to escape. 

How much she missed him. They had taken him from her in a moment of greatest despair, without granting him the chance to say good-bye, leaving her behind, uncertain whether or not he would return. He was gone. Gone like everyone she had ever loved, gone, perhaps forever. Narcissa had no memory of how long she’d been alone already, whether it were weeks or months, but why would it still matter? She had lost her feeling for time too long ago, and had no desire to regain it. 

Lucius wasn’t the same anymore, was no longer the handsome man she had known nearly her entire life; pale and thin, unable to speak and barely capable of looking into her eyes when she came to visit him in his cell, circled by Dementors that would gladly devour her own misery, too, should she surrender. But she wouldn’t dare to. 

She had always been there for her husband, had waited for him to return from battle, tended to his wounds and listened to his expressions of concern, yet never lost a word about herself. It was his presence alone that gave her comfort, his presence alone that made her feel safe, and even the silence would seem tolerable as long as they were together. 

If he knew, would he… 

As long as they were together. He was gone now, gone forever it seemed, and Narcissa was alone. Alone with the thoughts she had once been able to ban from her mind, never fully yet more and more with every day that had passed, now alone with no one but herself. She looked down at her arms but quickly turned her head away, closing her eyes in disgust. It seemed like a miracle that he had never noticed the scars that had remained, the scars nearly invisible and yet so clear, despite the countless spells and ointments she had applied in order to hide them. He had never noticed the marks that grotesquely blemished her body and yet told a tale, a tale of nothing but sheer despair. Perhaps he closed his eyes to the truth, perhaps he was blinded by the war, blinded by his own problems…

Countless times she had sworn herself to put an end to what she did to herself, and yet in her weakest moments she still found herself grasping the blade with her fingers as she watched the blood slowly trickle down her arms in thin lines, tracing it with her eyes. She savoured the pain, and yet it filled her with disgust. 

Worthless. She was worthless, had always been worthless, a disgrace to her family and her husband’s, too. How strong they had been, her parents and her sisters, even Andromeda, who had sullied the name of Black with her traitorous and foolish behaviour, and how weak Narcissa was, incapable of fulfilling her duties, incapable of coping with the war and with her life. 

Hadn’t she always been weak? Hadn’t she always… 

How tired she was. How incredibly tired, and yet she would never sleep longer than an hour, perhaps two, would wake breathless from nightmares she had no memory of and not be capable of closing her eyes again, restlessly wandering through the corridors until dawn broke. When exhaustion took her at last, she caught herself with the silent hope that death would finally come for her, too, reach out its arm to take her from this world and free her, reunite her with her mother who had barely been herself during the last years of her short life. 

“It’s a cry for help,” they said when Narcissa had attempted to take her life for the first time, cutting her wrists with the shard of a broken mirror, yet giving in to darkness too soon. 

A cry for help…what fools they were to doubt her sincerity, to believe that they possessed the ability to look right into her soul and comprehend her thoughts and her emotions, to believe that they knew her when in fact they knew nothing, nothing at all. What terrible fools… 

Who could have helped her, even if they were desperate to try, even if it were truly a cry for help and not a fierce longing for relief, relief that death alone would be able to grant to her? Who could have helped her, who? Her mother, who seemed to be the only one to understand, yet after Father’s death would spend days and days locked into her bedroom, refusing to speak, and refusing to eat? Her sisters, who lived their own lives, striving after happiness and fulfilment, each in their own way? Or Lucius, her Lucius, who in his unawareness seemed nearly innocent, nearly naïve in the way he spoke to her, as though there were nothing in this world to harm her. How quickly had he lost those features. How quickly had he lost any of his youth. Still, the love in his eyes had always remained. 

Andy had found her that night. 

“We need to take her to hospital! Please, Mother, please!” She’d heard the cry from far away in a brief moment of consciousness.

Her mother had not yielded, had in fact forbidden it, her voice full of anger, harsh and cruel, allowing no words of contradiction. “I will not disgrace the name of our family in such a way.”

As though she would not even care if… 

Magic had not been capable of mending what had initially seemed so easy to heal; the wounds had festered, but death was still too far away and instead came illness and fever dreams. Mother had stayed by her side night and day, had held her daughter's hand in moments she believed Narcissa to be asleep, always in silence; such terrible silence. Only once had Mother whispered to her, so quietly that Narcissa could barely understand her words, could not recognize the voice that spoke without its coldness. 

“It’s not time for you yet, Cissy,” she muttered, hoarsely, as though she had forgotten what it felt like to speak, as though it cost her great effort to contain herself. “You cannot leave before I do, do you understand? It’s not time for you yet…”

Narcissa opened her eyes briefly, to look at her at least for a moment. And for the first time, she could see tears slip down her mother’s cheeks. 

The guilt had seemed to drown Narcissa then, to suffocate her, to overwhelm her as though to punish her for her selfishness. What had she done…what had she done to her mother, who seemed so worried, so deeply hurt and yet not angry with her? What had she done to her sisters, who could hardly stand to look at her, especially Andromeda, whose eyes remained red and swollen as though she had been crying, days later? What had she done to herself, by giving in to her weakness, by allowing herself to fall?

It was not long after her mother’s death, when her husband saved her life from what he believed to be an accident, even now, all these years later. He had never noticed, had never realised anything at all. Still, it sometimes seemed that he knew more than he would admit to her. 

“Cissy, are you all right?” he would ask her, looking at her with his wide grey eyes as though he were unwilling to ever turn away from her again. She would force herself to smile at him, to nod, to kiss him, whispering into his ear that he needn’t worry, her heart breaking more and more with every time she spoke the lie. 

She needed him. She loved him, and how he seemed to love her, for reasons she could not understand. Countless times he had told her, but sometimes it seemed nearly impossible to believe. If only he were there beside her; if only he could see her and finally know the truth. How tired she was of smiling, of hiding. But now… now that he was gone, now that she was alone with no one but herself, who did she still have to hide from? Why couldn’t she just…

Nothing had ever been able to make her truly forget. Not the potions her mother had shared with her, not Lucius; nothing. Somehow she had learned to cope, had learned to swallow down her thoughts, to focus on being there for those she loved, to distract herself, until the silence had returned to her, causing everything to come crumbling down before her eyes, burying her beneath the ashes. 

She was alone. Had lost everything – her hold, her shelter. She had lost everyone she had ever loved: her mother, her sisters, her husband, and even her son, who slipped away more and more from her with every passing day. So why wouldn’t she lose herself at last? Why wouldn’t she just… 

Weak. Worthless. 

It was so easy. So easy now, when nobody would be there to save the life that had ceased to live in the moment of her husband’s imprisonment. It was so easy, and yet seemed so difficult. Hadn’t Lucius given her hope? Hadn’t he made her feel safe, hadn’t there been moments of happiness? Sometimes, she’d almost felt strong, and sometimes she’d almost believed there was a chance for her. 

Perhaps there was, perhaps she did have a chance to overcome what seemed impossible to overthrow, and perhaps once, in better times, she had nearly succeeded. But now it seemed too late, too late for everything. The war was long lost, and so was hers, her own personal battle. Death was coming for her, though she did not know when and did not know how, could merely sense that it was close, closer than ever before. 

Blood smeared across her fingers as Narcissa stroked her forearms, smeared beneath her eyes as she brushed away her tears. Weakly, she sank into her bed, quietly whispering to herself before she slipped into the silence once more.


End file.
